Clash at Vorbek
by son of the gorgon
Summary: The Howling Hunters are a proud chapter descended from the Iron Hands. When a call for aid comes from Vorbek, the Sixth Company answers, with an Inquisitor along to further her own agenda, can the Hunters prevail against the forces of Chaos?
1. Chapter 1

The Clash at Vorbek

Disclaimer: I do not own Warhammer 40,000

Prologue

Vorbek, a minor hive world on the edge of known space. It primarily produces bolter rounds, lasguns, and average Imperial Guard Regiments. It is of little value, beyond what value it contributes to the Munitorum. War has not touched Vorbek in over a century. Tonight, that changes. Tonight, the Eaters of Worlds would come for Vorbek.

Meteor showers were common on Vorbek, the clutter of wreckage in space often raining down to the planet's surface. Many of Vorbek's people made a living salvaging space scrap and selling the metal. The lights of falling meteors were extensive that night, but they were no meteors.

Guardsman Daniel Montegard was on watch at position 1231, warming his hands with his breath as he strode the parapet of his observation post. He cursed his squad leader for giving him watch this late at night, the man had it in for him, the young guardsman swore.

The young man stretched, trying to keep his eyes from closing and condemning him to slumber. If he was caught on watch their would be Hell to pay, no doubt a public flogging, if the unit Commissar had his way. The man in the high peaked cap had just transferred from duty with the Armageddon Steel Legions, and had yet to realize he had been relegated to a backwater command. Montegard would've felt bad for him if the man hadn't been such an insufferable ass.

Screams started filling the night air from the nearby town, shots echoed through the night as explosions lit the sky. Howling men were amongst the shrieking civilians, with a start Montegard sought the alarm bell, his hands shaking from the adrenaline coursing in his veins, but the entire platoon was already awake and in motion. The grizzled commissar was shouting in his hoarse voice, extolling the men to move faster.

Commissar Josef Vandenreich, hardly a day over thirty and already a veteran of over fifty campaigns. They said that the man had come from the storm troopers straight to the commissariat, being raised in a schola before joining the glory boys at age sixteen. The man's hair was steel grey, his face was always in a sneer that could have been cast from iron, and the bionic that had replaced his left hand was said to be a gift from a Lord-General of Cadia. What he had done to wind up on Vorbek, no one knew.

Montegard was running with the rest of his platoon, straight into the fray. No one knew what was going on, the vox was alive with the cries of confused operators and furious officers. Reports flooded from everywhere, hives were falling to screaming, crazed cultists, giants in armor the color of fresh blood amongst them wielding axes the size of a man. Traitor Angels, the fallen of the God-Emperor, Montegard had assumed them to be a myth. If the vox was to be believed, they were very real and they were here. All the young guardsman could do was grit his teeth, fight down his fear, and soldier on.

Chaos Space Marines, the bane of any Imperial force. Loyal Astartes were eight feet tall, covered in tokens professing loyalty to the God-Emperor, and would treat guardsmen like humans. Traitor Astartes were rabid, raging beasts. Montegard had heard the stories before, from veterans who had fought out of the system. They spoke of giants ripping men in half with only their hands, screaming maniacs covered in the tanned skins of their enemy. One man had told him, in hushed tones, of seeing a traitor hunched over the body of a fallen guardsman, tearing chunks from the man's body and stuffing them greedily into his own mouth.

None of the Traitor Angels were here, for that Montegard was grateful. Instead, a shirtless man screaming and waving a snarling chainsword ran at him. The young lad was so startled, he almost didn't fire his lasgun till it was too late, the rifle going off with a quick snap. The beam sheared the cultist almost in half as Guardsman Daniel Montegard fought for his life for the first time. It would not be the last time, and several more opportunities to lose it would happen that very night.

Commissar Vandenreich led them, the slowly dwindling men of his platoon, through the night. Screaming orders at them, killing heretics with his plasma pistol, leading them through fire and blood to their main base. They couldn't afford to wait for the chimeras they had been promised at the end of the week, they needed to combine their numbers in order to hold out, the only way to do that was to fight the hordes and try and reach their regiment.

A squad lived, Montegard included, to make it to the regiments base on the third day of their trek. The men had come through five separate skirmishes to reach their base, and the commissar had led them through them all. But, something was not quite right, no sentries manned the walls.

They still went in to investigate, and instead of finding a regiment assembling for war, Montegard found an abattoir. The remains of the regiment were gathered in a large pile, blood soaking the walls, heretical symbols painted onto them with the lifeblood of guardsmen. He noticed something, inbetween retching, something that disturbed him further.

Every single man in the pile was headless, and there was no evidence pointing to where the heads had gone. They went further into the base, investigating the chapel first. Commissar Vandenreich cursed, they had found where the heads had gone.

A massive alter had been built, to what, Montegard had no idea. Every single missing head was on a stake, forming a massive symbol. Of what, the young guardsman had no clue. He only knew that by the way his head pulsed and his teeth bled, that it was heresy of a major degree. He forced his eyes away, not daring to take a second look.

"Bring forward a flamer," Commissar Vandenreich rasped, "we must burn this, to save the souls of these poor men, and to take away something important to the enemy."

"What could be important about this to heretics, isn't it just to scare us?" Montegard asked incredulously.

The Commissar's gaze was sharp, "it is not simply to scare us, I have fought heretics of the Blood God before, and this is a place for gathering trophies, they will not be far gone from here."

Before anything more could be said, the revving of chain weapons could be heard, and brutal cries erupted from the buildings around them. Screaming heretics came on, baying for blood. But, amongst them, were brass and blood armored giants, Traitor Angels.

"Stand ready, not one step back!" Vandenreich screamed, "men of Vorbek, sell your lives dearly!" the Commissar leveled his plasma pistol at a charging cultist, vaporizing the man's chest with a single shot. Montegard took aim and fired, plenty of other cultists were coming on, and they would need to kill them all if they wanted to live.

1

Sergeant Mikael Red Axe was cleaning his armor. As a sergeant of the Howling Hunters, he could wear Terminator pattern armor when it suited him. He often chose to wear the mix of Mark VI and Mark VII that his brothers wore. For now, he was clad in a simple set of fatigues reserved for Astartes not in combat. Some chapters preferred robes, but not the Hunters, they had their own way of doing business. Let the Dark Angels have their robes and stoicism, let the Wolves have their furs and boisterousness. The Hunters were sons of the Gorgon, and carried their primarch's stoicism as a badge of honor.

Mikael finished his armor's chest piece, fixing a slash in it from an ork cleaver that had almost gone straight through to his heart. He would have left it be, but the gash was too deep, it would have compromised the armor's integrity. The greenskin's head now adorned Mikael's mantel, it had been a good trophy to claim. The greenskin had been abnormally large for it's race, and was one of it's species bodyguards for their warbosses. Captain Aldo Stone Tooth had taken the warbosses head, leaving the planet of Agrippa free to use it's guard regiments to clean up the rest. Astartes were needed elsewhere, especially in the segment of space the Howling Hunters fought for.

Even now, when the Sixth company was supposed to be resting and refitting, they were on their way to a new conflict. Vorbek, a world they had long ago claimed as their own to protect, was under invasion from the forces of Chaos. Mikael grimaced as he thought of that. Traitor Astartes were the worst to fight, they always brought the anger to the surface, the Gorgon's Engine that every Howling Hunter fought to keep under control. They could not let their passion rule them, as the Wolves did, they had to keep themselves restrained.

The Gorgon's Engine, the fighting heart of the Chapter, was only let loose in dire times. It had served them well in the Second War of Armageddon, where they had set it loose outside Hive Volcanus to save the lives of millions. It had been turned on the foul Emperor's Children at the siege of Corinthe, where they had bathed the volcanic soil of that world with traitor blood. Mikael prayed he would not need to use his engine, but he touched his axe respectfully, all the same. It had taken the Ork's head, it would soon take traitor heads.

Mikael took his reflection further, looking upon himself as he thought of the chapter he belonged to. All his limbs were bionic now, lost in conflict with a good majority of his inner organs. Both eyes had been replaced with green orbs, which served him far better than his organics had. He was not cold, though, as some saw their progenitors, merely stern. His mind would remain mortal, even if his body lost the weakness of flesh.

A polite knocking came from the door, Mikael knew it wouldn't be an Astartes, it could be only one possible person. He opened the door, to reveal a slip of a girl that happened to carry the authority of the Ordos Xenos. Inquisitor Lucilla Kane, who had enlisted the help of him and his squad down on the surface of Agrippa.

The inquisitor barely came up to Mikael's chest, was blond, and no doubt was considered attractive to mortals. Mikael, as an Astartes, had no time for such feelings. But, he could appreciate the Inquisitor as one appreciates a sculpture. He found he had a taste for the arts, after five hundred years of service, they were a welcome reprieve when not in battle.

Her retinue was behind her, two women wrapped in form fitting leather with power swords on their hips. A savant of the Mechanicum clad in a red robe, mechadendrites waving. Their were a few veterans of the guard, a tough Cadian in carapace armor with a hellgun strapped on and two Mordians, a man and woman, with boltguns. Lastly, their was a man in a trench coat, carrying a rifle longer than he was tall. His face was hidden from Mikael by a plain, white mask. If he didn't know any better, the man could have passed for a Vindicare. He hadn't bothered to learn their names, and he doubted he would, he wouldn't see the Inquisitor again, nor her retinue, so why bother?

"Inquisitor," he nodded at her retinue as well, "to what do I owe this visit? I figured you would be on your way to another assignment."

She smiled, it reminded Mikael of an ice bear baring it's teeth at prey, "it seems our paths will continue on in the same direction for a little while longer, my business takes me to Vorbek as well, Mikael."

"I have told you several times, you may address me as Sergeant," the inquisitor merely smirked at that.

"Ah, but you hold little sway over me, just as I hold little sway over you, Mikael, that is the way you Astartes like it, is it not?"

"If you are looking for someone to bandy rhetoric with, I'm sure Chaplain Lauri is available, and always enjoys a verbal spar."

"But the good Chaplain doesn't get irritated like you do, my dear Mikael, and it is so fun to watch you fight to control yourself."

Mikael snorted, if this impudent woman could get under his skin, then clearly his scout sergeant had failed. No, what the woman saw on his face was the same look of bother he always had. A stern setting of the jaw and eyes that scared away mortals, all but this one it seemed.

Lucilla turned serious, "I will need help from you and your squad again, I'm afraid. I require the power of Astartes again."

"We go to fight traitors, not xenos, what are you even doing going to Vorbek, Inquisitor?"

"You don't need to know yet, Sergeant, but trust me when I say, it will take you and all your brothers to quell it."

Mikael nodded, rubbing his jaw with a single hand, the Mordian woman let out a small gasp, no doubt at how much metal Mikael was actually composed of. Both of his arms were bare to the world, no doubt she had only just noticed them. Typical of mortals, Mikael had already cataloged every flaw and every physical trait that could be used to identify the retinue. Somehow, he doubted he'd been so unaware when he was like them, but that hadn't been since he was a boy of ten.

"Do these bother you girl?" he questioned, getting a small amount of amusement from her blush and stuttering, "if that is all Inquisitor, good day." With that said, he closed his door, and returned to his armor.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Inquisitor Lucilla Thorne was a woman who seldom didn't get what she wanted. Striding down the hallway of the Battle Barge _Ravager,_ she had the appearance of a woman who hadn't gotten what she wanted.

"Really Cordelia, could you have stared any harder at him, you practically bored holes into him," her comments cut into the Mordian guardsman's skin, and the girl had the grace to look ashamed, mumbling an apology. She was a new addition to the retinue, having been recommended by her brother, Rudolf. Rudolf, walked behind them all, at the rear of the retinue. His combat shotgun was slung downwards, as the bear of a man attempted to make conversation with Hess, the sniper. Hess, as usual, did not entertain the Mordian, and merely kept pace with the rest.

Sergeant Mikael Red Axe was an enigma to the Inquisitor, she turned back to these thoughts as she made for her quarters. He was like all of the Hunters, in that he seemed to enjoy the bionics he had. But, there was a spark of fire underneath it all that thoroughly intrigued her. His records, what the Inquisition had on him that wasn't sealed, indicated he was almost five hundred years old, had served in the Death Watch, and been in more wars than some Guard Regiments.

By all rights, he should be dead, Lucilla reflected, her master had spoken well of him, having been his kill teams handler when Mikael was in the Death Watch. He had told her, when he had gifted her her signet, that should she need something killed, Mikael Red Axe was the man for it. The old bastard knew what he was talking about. Lucilla had given the Sergeant the mission of destroying a valuable ork manufacturing site, where the bastards were constructing Gargants, he had come through where Lucilla had expected to have to use Deathstrike missiles.

An added bonus had come when the good Sergeant had almost single handedly killed the bodyguard of the warboss Gut Stompa. If anything, it proved that he was the kind of man she needed in her retinue. One final test would come, while she talked with Captain Aldo, hopefully, he would be wiling to relinquish one of his finest to her service. Experience told her that Astartes always guarded their best toys jealously, it would be a long argument.

Her retinue disappeared to their quarters, all in the vicinity of her own. Vette and Sette, the two death cult assassins, stayed with her. The leather wrapped women were her constant companions and guardians. The only way she could tell them apart was the fact that Sette was blond where Vette was redheaded. While she lounged on a couch, draping her coat across a chair leaving her in a black vest and white dress shirt, the pair of assassins took up positions in corners of the room.

"Mikael Red Axe," she murmured as she settled down for a nap, yawning, "you will be mine."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Daniel Montegard was amazed he was still alive. A month had come and gone since the forces of Chaos had landed on Vorbek. He and the Commissar were the only ones from their unit still breathing, but they had found fellow survivors in the ruins of Hive Bailoc. Hardly any of them had left the battle in the chapel alive. Commissar Vandenreich continued to lead them, if anything the man's face just got grimmer with every curve ball thrown their way.

He was on guard, though it was the middle of the day. A horde of cultists had been spotted in the area, and no one wanted to risk combat just yet. Last night they had committed a raid on the enemy camps, everyone was exhausted. Montegard had experience with exhaustion, so he stayed on watch while the newer men slept.

The lasgun in his hands was different from the one he had started out with, his first one had snapped in half under the workings of a chainsword in a ravin lunatics hands. Vandenreich had pressed this one into his hands, still splattered with its former owners blood. So far, it hadn't failed him. He hoped it wouldn't.

Gerard walked over to him, nodding as a form of greeting, the bespectacled guardsman sat beside Montegard. The two didn't say anything, they didn't need to. It was merely enough to have the company of someone that wasn't a raving lunatic. Gerard grinned suddenly, pulling a flask from his belt and offering it to Montegard.

He had heard about the distilleries that some of the troops ran out of the barracks. He had never seen them though, he was still considered a raw trooper until the war broke out. Now, he was proud to say he was a veteran, even if it would no doubt end violently soon, just like his life. Being only nineteen, he had never had a legal drink, or an illegal one, seeing as he hadn't gone for that sort of thing in the schola.

The clear liquid burned, and had a smell reminiscent of polish remover. He wheezed and choked as Gerard laughed at him. Still, the pleasant warmth in his gut, face, and chest was worth it. He took another swallow, barely coughing this time. It made him dizzy, and hot, he thought idly to himself that it probably was against the rules for him to be drinking right now. He found he really didn't give a damn.

Commissar Vandenreich was suddenly in Montegard's vision, how long the man had been there, he couldn't say. The man's lips curled into a sneer, looking from Gerard to the flask, then to Montegard.

"If we were not in such dire need of men, I could have you shot," the commissar let a breath out, "but, war is not a time for such things to happen, not when it is this desperate. Guardsman Gerard, you will give me that flask of illicit substance and we will never speak of this again. You will then return to the main bivouac area and not come back."

Gerard did as he was ordered, and didn't need any more stern words to do it in a hurry. He cast Montegard a sympathetic glance, before hurrying away, no doubt to tell anyone awake what a hard ass the Commissar was. Vandenreich watched him go, and when he was out of sight, grinned and sat beside Montegard. He took a pull from the flask before handing it to Montegard.

"Well, we live to fight another day, don't we Monty?" The Commissar let out a dry chuckle, his whole tone cynical.

Somehow, Daniel Montegard kept his jaw from dropping in disbelief, the Commissar was talking to him as if he were an equal? Was this some kind of test, some sort of mind game that they taught them at the Commissariat? He was not sure how to respond, so he stayed quiet.

"Now now, we're comrades, the only two survivors from our original platoon now that young Bic is scattered across the street in chunks. We are equals right now, no one else is around."

"Then, may I call you Josef," stuttered Montegard, "or would you prefer Commissar?"

"Josef is fine for now, just don't forget, it's Commissar in front of the others. Can't have discipline be lost, even if you're my second."

"Second what?"

Vandenriech looked at him like he was stupid, "second in command, if I go down, the men will look to you for leadership. If I were able to, I would have it be made official with a proper rank and what not, but for now we will have to do with my word, won't we?"

"I'm flattered, but I don't think I'm the man for the job," Him in a leadership position? No way, Daniel Montegard had long ago resolved to do his tour of duty and then go off and work in a factory somewhere.

"Nonsense, you're better than this lot at leading, and they look to you already when I'm not their to answer. I know, I've seen it happen already, just keep doing your job and we'll be square," Vandenreich took another drink, passing Montegard back the flask.

The night was not over, the pair adjourned to a separate area where they talked shop. They had almost twenty men in their care, they needed to get some sort of supply for them, and a command structure set up. The two spent most of the day 'confiscating' illicit liquor and shooting the breeze.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Captain Aldo Stonetooth was not a happy man. Mikael could see that etched into his superiors face. The mountain of Astartes was clad in terminator armor the mixed greens and bone white pauldrons of the chapter. His bearded face was revealed to the world, his helmet on the table beside him.

"Well Mikael, it seems the dear lady Inquisitor wants you again, doing something with her that I should know about?" Stonetooth joked, having a penchant for them.

"The Inquisitor forgets herself, Astartes are meant for war, not the cloak and dagger operations the Inquistion find themselves in. I served in the Watch for more than forty years, I've had my share of her like."

"So, I'll take that as a no to you wanting to be seconded to her service?" Aldo was suddenly serious, the red bionic eye on the right of his face boring into Mikael's green ones.

"I wasn't aware she was asking for that, she certainly never asked me," Mikael growled, "I'm assuming she's trying to convince you to let me go to her service?"

"She's yowling about it like a cat with a boot on it's tail. Frankly, it's annoying, but we don't want a war with the Inquisition. The Wolves barely got away with it, and they're a founding legion. No one will care if some Third Founding upstarts get crushed like the Celestial Lions are said to have been. There aren't enough of us, and they know who we are."

"So you're giving me away to her?" Mikael ground out.

"I didn't say that," Aldo snapped, "I told her she can petition Chapter Master Schwars, and if he deigns to notice her, maybe you'll do twenty years work with the Inquisition. Could be worse, you could be one of the honor guard that has to go with the Rogue Traders. They hardly see anything that amounts to war with them, most of it's pomp and exploration with those explorers."

"Captain, I do not want to work with that woman, she annoys me."

"Better annoyance than war with the Inquisition, relations with them are already strained enough after Arkadi in the Fourth put one down for being tainted. Some of them still think we were trying to hide something he found."

"Did he find anything?"

"No, we have nothing to hide, and if they want to whine about the fact we have more than the codex allows, we can point them to our friends in the Templars and let them have it out. Besides, they can't prove how many we've got, that's the beauty of being fleet based. Our home is the stars."

Mikael sighs then, brushing his blond hair back with an armored hand, he had donned it when he was summoned to the Captain's quarters. It is rare to see Captain Stonetooth out of armor, some say he can't get out of it anymore, that his bionics bind him to it. Mikael certainly hasn't seen him out of it in over a century.

"I liked it better when I just killed things, instead of getting wrapped up in politics. I am a warrior, not a winder of words."

Stonetooth chuckles, "then you know what it is to be a Captain. I used to live for the charge, leading a squad of Astartes into the fray, now, I barely get to do that. They gave me a Company Champion for fighting my duels, and all I do now is point at maps and bark orders."

Aldo sighs, "it will be your turn one day, to take up the mantle of a Captain. I'm surprised it hasn't happened yet, why is that?"

"I keep turning it down, and Master Schwars doesn't have the heart to make me do it, yet."

"Yet is the key word there, sooner or later he'll slap you with the chains of command, and you'll have your own company to worry about. Just as soon as one of us croaks, you'll get yours." Aldo grinned, "or maybe they'll keep you here with me in the Sixth till I bite the dust, and you'll be my successor, eh?"

"You are incorrigible," Mikael replied brusquely.

"Aye, you said the same when we were scouts, and it still applies now, that's why we make Chaplain Lauri do the talking." The two laughed at that, the young Chaplain found the pairs antics annoying. Still, he let them be, theirs was a bond that transcended rank.

"So, how much longer will it take to reach Vorbek, I'm aching to get into battle once more, that suicide mission the Inquisitor gave me wasn't enough to tide me over."

Aldo nodded, "two weeks, give or take. The warp is a strange place, we might get there to find a minute has taken place, we might get there to find a year has passed. Navigator Eri has a good sense for it though, and she says two weeks should be all the time that passes."

"Whats the plan for the battle, rain fire down on them with drop pods or go in on landers?"

"I'll let you know when we get there, no one's sure what the state of the Defense Force fleet is, or what strength the traitors have in space. We might fight boarding actions before anything else, but if we don't get down to the surface quickly enough, we might not have anyone left to save. Vorbek is a planet of millions, we can afford to lose them, but we don't want to."

"I wouldn't mind getting my squad into the boarding parties, do we still have the boarding shields in the armory?"

"Just got them refurbished, Iron Father Erik claims they're ready to go, even the one that shorted out on the last hulk we searched."

"I'll take the shields then, we'll need them if it's a traitor ship, it'll keep the flamers from roasting us as we burn our way through the decks."

Aldo looked at him, "get your squad ready then, two weeks is hardly enough time to get three new brothers inducted in breaching tactics. The one looks like he can barely tell which end of a bolter works, and he's a full blooded brother for Thrones sakes."

"Who, Breki? He's a bit lost still, I'll give you that, but the lad has a good heart," Mikael laughed, "and a strong arm, he'll be the first one in with the shields, the lad could do with a good smacking around from blocking bolts with a slab of adamantium."

Mikael had lost three brothers in the fight to destroy the Gargant factory, Daedalus, Konnor, and Lief. Three Astartes that would never fight again. They had managed to salvage their gene seed, which was cause enough to celebrate, and the three had died fighting a horde of worthy foes. Mikael had their names tattooed on his back, as he had all the names of his fallen brothers tattooed there. The list was extensive.

Breki, Joros, and Gunther were the three new brothers in his squad, drawn up from the assault squads of the Sixth company to serve as tactical squad brothers. From here, they could only go to being a sergeant, or the honored First. There was no going back. The only thing that was in his three charges future was glory, or death.

After finishing his talk with the Captain, Mikael found himself heading to the squad bay, where his men were billeted. Lucas, his second, was tinkering with the plasma gun he wielded and cared for like a son. Einar was cleaning his blade, etching fresh runes he had learned from a Space Wolf Iron Priest onto the blade. They had served with the Wolves at Anvil Gate on Hadrian IV, and some of their teachings had rubbed off on Einar. The band tattoos across the long faced Astartes face were a mark from that time, as were the runes he now had on his sword.

"Where are the rest of the men, I didn't expect to find only the two of you in here?"

Lucas shrugged, "some of them wanted to test their mettle in the cages, Breki in particular seemed to want to prove himself. He challenged Hans to a match, and the rest of them just had to see the result."

"And you did not?" Mikael asked.

Lucas shrugged, "Hans is going to wipe the floor with the kid, he's built from the same rock he tried to farm as a kid. Breki just came from the assault squads, he's needing a peg or two knocked off him."

Mikael sighed, "I'd best check on them then, come by my quarters tonight, you two, we have work to discuss for the landing. We might be a boarding party."

Einar perked up at that, "really, a boarding party? It's been a long time since the last one, you aren't just playing with my head?"

"I really mean it, Einar," Mikael answered, already leaving for the training cages.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Didn't like the original chapter, so I rewrote the whole thing. Granted, I originally wrote it to get an idea on the internet while in Korea, but I feel it's come along nicely.


	2. Chapter 2

The Clash at Vorbek

Chapter 2

by Son of the Gorgon

Disclaimer: I do not own Warhammer 40,000

Orks ran rampant throughout the galaxy, especially on the fringes of the Imperium of Man. Some chapters of Astartes patrolled it exclusively to combat the green skin threat, several fortress worlds had been founded to keep them from spilling into more peaceful sectors. The Howling Hunters patrolled the edges, not only to fight the Ork, but to keep themselves from undergoing too much contact with the Imperium as a whole.

They did not mind the mortals they protected, but they found it difficult to spend any prolonged amount of time with them. Their place was in the stars, traveling from battle to battle. Mikael Red Axe found he to had that attitude, as he led his men in exercise aboard the battle barge _Ravager._ Currently, he was gritting his teeth behind a breaching shield, his second in command Lucas was firing his plasma gun next to him, using his own shield as cover.

Servitors burned to a crisp, next to Mikael one of his striplings was wielding a flamer behind his breaching shield. Breki, proud, grinning Breki with his red mane of hair, shouted in victory at his brothers work. Joros nodded, not paying him any more mind as he put the weapon to work.

The bell peal of metal being struck resounded, the training grounds resembled the corridor of a battle barge, and it was rife with automatic defenses as one would expect. Breki's shield had been struck by a metal bar, that could very well have cut him in half had he not had it. Still, he had not expected it, and took the shield to his exposed face.

Hans laughed, he was further back in the press, but the veteran had seen what happened, "won't be the last time that happens, young blood, better keep your eye on target!"

"Bah, it only happened because I wasn't expecting it old man, there won't be a next time," Breki retorted, spitting a small amount of blood out onto the deck. The acid spit mixed in with it started sizzling into the grating.

Everyone laughed at that, Breki seemed to have become something of a heart for the squad. The young blood's jokes and ways seemed to bring a smile to their faces. Hans, the old veteran, had taken him under his wing, and began instructing him in the way of the axe, Hans' preferred weapon.

Later, after the drill was done for the day, Mikael found himself in the chapel with Chaplain Lauri. The blond, boyish faced Astartes chiding Mikael lightly for interrupting his work. They both knew the Chaplain was merely making a joke.

Chaplain Lauri had been a member of the Sixth Company for a few decades, which was still relatively new for an Astartes. The Astartes was fresh from the Reclusiam, but he had proved his mettle more than once. Both, as a Chaplain, and a warrior, Lauri was respected for his blade work and his word smithing. He often led the Company in prayer before battle, his black armor adorned with purity seals and stylized cogs. The head of his Crozius resembled a great brass gear, having been a gift from the Iron Hands upon their founding.

"What brings you to my chapel, brother, surely one as ancient and venerated as yourself hasn't come upon a problem that you cannot reason out. Perhaps you are hear to enjoy the company of the Sixth's relics?"

Mikael nodded, "more or less, Brother-Chaplain, that and to ask what task you have been given in the coming campaign."

"I will make planet fall with the assault squads, the orks did not slake the thirst of my wrath for Mankind's enemy well enough. I desire to be in the vanguard again," he grinned, "besides, it's been far too long since I took to battle with a jump pack. It will give the traitors quite a fright, I imagine."

"It isn't to see what I have to say about the good Inquisitor trying to get on my good side, then is it?" the Chaplain was suddenly serious, the smile gone from his face. The eyes turning into ice chips in their sockets as the mirth disappeared from them.

"Has she told you at all why it is she wants me for her retinue?"

"You know the Inquisition, they don't want you to know until it's too late," the Chaplain grunted, "she did mention something about needing Astartes killing power, I think she might be in love with your sword arm."

It was many moments before Mikael realized it was a joke, he chuckled a little if only to humor the Chaplain. His days in the shadows were over with. He wasn't interested in retaking the black, not for any reason at all.

"Why is she so damn persistent, I've already told her I have no interest in joining her, yet she's still here."

"The Inquisition works in it's own ways, it could be they're using this as a smoke screen. They could be investigating Astartes affairs, affairs mortals have no reason to know."

"She is Ordos Xenos," Mikael replied quietly.

"No one says an Inquisitor can't change her Ordo, what little knowledge we have about them, it points to the fact that they can change their main targets of investigation at the drop of a hat."

"She's playing a dangerous game, our Inquisitor."

The two nodded together, in agreement. It would be a trying time when the matter finally reached the ears of the Chapter Master. Hopefully, he would not bow to the will of the Inquisition, but what was one space marine before the life of his brothers? If the Inquisition wanted to force the issue, would the Chapter mobilize against them?

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Guardsman Daniel Montegard was not having a good day, not a good day by far. It had been a few months since the traitors had come to Vorbek, and the situation had only gotten more dire as the days under attack grew. Hives, far fewer than the planet had, still held out under the siege of the crazed servants of the Blood God.

He debated trying to get his men into one of the hives, but they were all under such attack that there would be no way that a group their size would be able to fight their way in. And if they tried to sneak in, well, if they could find a way in, what would stop the cultists from doing the same?

Rumors of a fleet sent to aid them were a pipe dream to the young guardsman. Still, some of his fellow survivors clung to the hope. The only thing that they had was their faith, faith in the God Emperor. He may have been a man who attended church, but Montegard found he had more faith in his lasgun these days than he did in any sort of celestial being. He knew enough to keep his mouth shut about such things, though.

They were currently taking refuge in an abandoned munitions dump. The corrugated steel was rusted, the building empty of any sort of comfort, but it was safe enough. Miller and Jonias were on watch. Everyone else was sleeping, but Montegard found himself unable to sleep.

He was exhausted, they all were, but his thoughts still kept him awake. It was an event that had happened the previous day, and kept playing over and over in his head.

The woman looked normal enough, dirty and covered in rags like everyone else that didn't have flak armor. One of their number, Emperor above, he couldn't even remember the man's name, had tried to offer her a ration. The woman's face had turned feral, in almost an instant. She was howling and hacking into the guardsman's neck with a butcher knife, shrieking like a cat in a blender the whole time.

Montegard had killed her, shooting her till she stopped moving, and a few after for good measure. Vandenreich understood, and didn't say anything. It wasn't the killing that bothered him about it though, it was how normal the woman had looked. Could there be more cultists among the civilians scattered in the ruins? The occasional contact they made with the hollow eyed citizens were already strained enough, would they submit themselves for inspection of heretical markings if they demanded them? He missed the days of being a simple guardsman, instead of being the leader of a platoon trapped deep in enemy territory.

He let out a breath, closing his eyes. Suddenly, he heard rocks skittering, having been kicked, and was instantly alert. The lasgun by his side was never raised, a giant stood above him. The Astartes armor was green, and of a completely different make than that of the traitors they had fought or run from. It was primarily a chest piece, for one. The giant had a camouflage cloak over his shoulders, and a pistol larger than Montegard's lasgun. A long bladed knife was on the man's belt, with what looked like a sniper rifle over his shoulder.

The Astartes held a finger up to his lips, holstering his pistol. He gestured for Montegard to stand.

"I am Sven," the Astartes said quietly and simply, "a scout of the Howling Hunters. It took some time to find this band of guardsmen, I commend you."

Montegard was unsure of what to say, but remembered enough to make the sign of the aquila across his chest in salute. Sven returned it, his dark eyes alight with amusement at this. The Astartes had the biggest beard Montegard had ever seen, it trailed down to his chest, a mix of black and grey.

"What, what are you doing here my lord?"

"That is easy enough to answer, it is my job to gather intelligence, intelligence was needed here. I have not been able to find any other loyalists, not in such numbers, but there are plenty of the arch enemy to go around in these parts."

"Now tell me, guardsman, what you know of the Eaters of Worlds, and why they have come to Vorbek."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Stanislav Doombringer eyed the ramparts of ferrocrete and steel arrayed before him. Six months, six months since the campaign upon Vorbek had started, and they still had not breached Hive Secundus. His blood packs were thirsty, for combat, for blood. There was no point in sending them at the walls, they would not be able to cut their way through with their chain weapons.

It would merely result in their death, from the massive siege cannons or from guardsmen throwing satchel charges from the ramparts, he and his cohort would not play a part, not yet. He could hear them howling even know, his blood packs, chained and locked away lest they slay the mortal slaves they employed.

Stanislav turned to his second in command, an iron armored son of Perturabo named Yuri. He had left Sergei in charge of the siege, in charge of breaking the walls of Secundus and pulling the puling mortals from their hiding place.

"What news do you bring for me, Yuri, it can't be that of victory, for I see the walls of Secundus stand before me still." The voice of the war band leader sounded like knives being drawn across whetstones.

"No, not of victory, not yet my lord. Our ships in orbit report a small craft breaking orbit late last night. It was later reported as having landed somewhere in the North, I have dispatched three squads to investigate." Yuri's voice was a bass drum, loud and boisterous to Stanislav's quiet, deathly timbre.

"Assassinorum perhaps, though it's not like them to be caught so easily," Stanislav mused to himself. Yuri waited patiently, his leader had a flair for theatrics, one that he had become used to after years in the Eye of Terror under his command.

"I doubt that, my lord. The assassins of the Corpse Emperor are rarely so indirect. If they wanted to slay me, they would have an assassin scoop my brains out from miles away with their rifle, or send a shrieking skull faced maniac to rip me asunder. No, if anything it is the same thorn in our side we have faced before."

Stanislav growled, "the Hunters, sons of Manus. Worthy foes, but as sneaky and sudden to strike as snakes at times. One of their lone scouts?"

Yuri nodded, Stanislav growled, even louder this time, "send the Blood Pack, let no knowledge of our doings escape the planet."

"It will be done, my lord."

The steel door whined open, steel on steel putting Yuri's teeth on edge. Eight beasts that had once been Astartes were chained to the walls, howling like animals that scented blood. Yuri pitied them, they had once been warriors like him, now they were lost to their maddened quest for blood. He himself had little use for gods, having replaced mutations, so called gifts, with bionics when they had surfaced.

Wordlessly, he commanded the slaves around him to start carrying the Blood Pack away. The howling warriors were brought to a thunderhawk, where they would stay until being dropped into the relative area of the loyalist scum. Yuri grinned, whoever was out there would not last long with the blood pack on their trail. They could smell their prey from miles away.

The squads that would accompany the Blood Pack, iron armored just as he, were already waiting at the thunderhawks. It would be a great day for hunting, a pity he could not go.

He had a siege to break, and a city to kill.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Twisted, malformed ships occupied the space above Vorbek, the fleet that had defended it so much wreckage scattered in the system. Mikael stared at the ships from the observation deck. It wouldn't be long before they began their attack, he would have to leave for the boarding torpedoes soon. His squad was raw, still unused to working together, hopefully the fires of war would forge them together into a complete blade.

"Do you remember our first battle, Mikael," Lucas asked, standing next to his sergeant, "the defense of Hive Tertius on Badalan. We were just scouts then, children really, barely knew how to work a bolter."

He paused, "we get older, and every brother I see come after us these days, every replacement, I see that same kid that I once was. It's not gotten any easier with age, watching them die."

"Why are you bringing this up, Lucas." Mikael asked quietly.

"Because, Mikael, I can feel it in my bones. This is going to be my last campaign before I go to the Emperor's side." Lucas smiled grimly, "my death bell has sounded, and I've heard it's call."

Mikael shook his head, omens were ill-ignored amongst them. Still, no one knew what fate would have in store for them, "you can't know that."

"A specter came to me last night, black in plate, wreathed in holy flame, he merely pointed at me. No words were needed, I know an omen of death when I see one. My end is coming, and it is coming soon, old friend."

Nothing was said for the longest time, nothing was needed to be. Eventually, the two departed for the boarding torpedo, passing serfs clad in carapace to repel boarding parties as they went. Other Hunters nodded as they passed, heading off to their own tasks.

When they reached the torpedo, the rest of the squad was waiting. Breki was idly inspecting his flamer, trying to hide his nervousness. The rest of the squad were doing their usual checks of equipment. Mikael stood by, watching his striplings. They did indeed resemble Lucas and himself when they were wet behind the ears. They were the new face of the chapter, and the thought of that hit Mikael, he had been hearing it without realizing it up until this point. So few Astartes of his age were still alive, still fighitng. It was miraculous he was not dead or in a dreadnought himself.

Hans was muttering under his breath, prayers and catechisms of faith. He had a nervous habit of doing it, said it comforted him during battle. Mikael thought it was his way of fighting off the desire to let go, to berserk his way through the foe. It was the people of their planets way, when they had been plucked from it so long ago.

The doors sealed behind them, everyone strapped into a harness. The light was red and sparse inside the torpedo. Mikael double checked his axe, chambered a round in his combi-melta, and settled in. He didn't have a long wait till the torpedo was launched.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Daniel Montegard stood next to Commissar Vandenreich, the two arrayed in front of the large Astartes scout Sven. Four additional giants, arrayed in the same armor as Sven had shown themselves over the last two days, with a further five somewhere else in the area. They were all grey, possessed bionics, and oddly cheerful.

"We have made contact with several other groups like yours, arraying in sizes from platoon strength to company. As we speak, they are being directed to a staging area fifty miles to the west in preparation for actions in support of our brothers. But not you, you have a special task," Sven spoke, he seemed to be the leader of this band of scouts.

One of the scouts had lain a map across a broken chunk of rockcrete. On it was a aerial view of an old munitions factory. It was only a few days old, and showed off impressive fortifications and what appeared to be hundreds, if not thousands, of cultists. Sven took the time to point out several key areas on the building.

"They archenemy is keeping something in here, and we don't know what. But whatever it is, we'll need to destroy it. I'll be taking your band into the sewer systems beneath in order to destroy the factory."

He traced a finger from the streets into the factory, "Siggi has found the access point here, and is going to try and find out just what they're hiding in there. He's already commenced his mission as we speak."

Indeed, the scout known as Siggi had already begun his recon mission. He was the same height as all the giant astartes, the only distinguishing feature to note would be the silver hair upon his head being braided. The scout found himself relying on his own eyes in the deep darks of the sewers.

He spoke no words, for no one was their to hear him. He merely trudged on, sweeping his advance with his stalker boltgun. The trusty bolter had seen him through over a century of campaigning with the scouts, and he hoped it would see him through a few more before he joined the Emperor's side.

Something cracked, footsteps skittered in the dark. Siggi drew a bead upon the area, and found a sniveling cultist in his sights. The wretch was clutching a severed arm, no doubt hiding in the sewers to eat his prize in peace. Without pause, the Astartes holstered his boltgun. Instead, he drew the monomolecular edge of his combat knife. There was no point in wasting rounds.

The poor bastard never knew what was coming, Siggi nearly sliced the poor bastard's head off with the edge of the blade, from a combination of the blades edge and his own prodigious strength. With the man's lifeblood staining his gauntlets, Siggi hid the body under some rubble and continued on his way. He didn't sheath his knife, if there was one cultist down here, chances were there would be scores more. It was only five hundred yards into the bowels of the factory, through twisting and turning tunnels, he didn't like the chances of not finding any others.

In fact, Siggi would encounter three other groups of cultists, clustered around fires in barrels, warming themselves in the dank of the tunnels. He didn't need to use his boltgun, his bionic fists and knife were all it took to kill these miserable mortals. Siggi had left that behind him two hundred years ago. He left their remains painted across the walls, there was no need to hide their bodies, where would he hide over twenty bodies in a sewer tunnel anyway? If any heretics came down into the tunnels, they would find their friends rather easily, so he left them in the open. He didn't think they'd be coming down their any time soon, and he didn't plan on leaving the same way he came unless he had to.

He came to a manhole cover eventually, he didn't bother opening it, not just yet. Instead, he slipped a small camera upon a fiber optic cable from one of his pouches. Cracking open the cover, he slide the small lens through it and peered around the room. He was not surprised by what he found.

The factory floor was alight with blood and remains of slaughter, dead cultists and guardsman dotting the floor, but the place was far from inactive. Floodlights exposed machines being created, tanks of the PDF, ruined or captured, being turned and rebuilt in dedication to the dark gods.

Siggi could not tell how many were built, but the factory itself no doubt had room for hundreds, if not thousands, of these vehicles. They were building an army of armor, one that walls could not stand against. He pulled the camera free, he had to tell Sven and the others of this, he had to-

A hammer blow sent Siggi flying down the tunnel, the peal of metal striking ceramite filling the air. Blood dripped from the cracked carapace. Siggi coughed as he rolled to his feet, his knife drawn in one hand, the other full of his bolt pistol's grip.

His opponent was a giant as he, only clad in the iron power armor of a son of Perturabo. One hand had been replaced with a cruel claw bionic. It was the hand that had no doubt been used to strike Siggi. The Iron Warrior was alone, clearly thinking he needed no help to deal with a single scout. Were this any other chapter, where the scouts were the raw and untested, the traitor would have been right.

Siggi was no greenhorn boy, he was a veteran of his chapter, and he would prove this slime wrong. With a roar of fury, Siggi threw himself at his opponent, bolt pistol sending silent death before him.

The rounds didn't penetrate the traitor's ceramite shell, proving too thick for them. They left gouges in the ceramite, one in particular leaving a whorl in his chest plate, defacing the steel skull of the Iron Warrior's heraldry.

The Iron Warrior met Siggi halfway, the two locking fists, having caught each others strikes. The Traitor began laughing, pushing his power claw slowly down toward Siggi's chest. With power born of desperation, Siggi freed his left arm, and struck the traitor across the helm with a bionic fist. The ceramite shattering beneath his powerful blow, sending the traitor reeling.

Siggi did not see the claw strike it's blow, sending him on his own journey away from the Iron Warrior. When he had regained his footing, he saw the traitor discarding his shattered helm, revealing pale, corpse like flesh marred with a crude metal jaw, and red rimmed eyes.

"Come lapdog of the Emperor, make your death worthy enough for me to remember," The Iron Warrior beckoned with his flesh hand, the claw replacing the other flexing and unflexing.

Siggi said nothing, tossing his combat knife from hand to hand, before breaking into a run towards the traitor. His bionic left hand free to strike as he attempted a slash with the knife in his right.

As the traitor went to block, meeting the knife's blade with his claw, Siggi let his true intentions known. The Iron Warrior had left his face exposed, and the Betcher's Gland within the scout had been hard at work since he had risen from the first strike of the claw.

A mouthful of acid splattered across the Iron Warriors face, getting into both of the traitors eyes. The acid began sizzling almost immediately, rendering the son of Perturabo blind as it ate away the flesh. The blinded warrior began rolling around on the ground howling, his hands seeking purchase on anything.

In his carelessness, Siggi had left himself open to the grasp of the claw. It closed around his left ankle, snapping shut with all the care of scissors slicing through paper. Siggi bit down on his lip, toppling to the floor beside the thrashing Iron Warrior. He drew his bolt pistol and finished the Astartes off with a headshot, what he should have done from the beginning. It was too late now, another piece of his flesh was gone, from his own fault no less.

It didn't take long for the stump to stop bleeding, his physiology allowed for his wounds to heal rather quickly. He felt feverish though as he regained his footing, limping his way back the way he had come, not in any shape for a fight. A bit of blood was coming up with the occasional cough, no doubt from the sucker punch he had initially received. Siggi was observant, and a good scout, but what he didn't see, was the tinge of black that had started creeping up his leg from the severed stump.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Breki stood next to his Sergeant aboard the tainted ship they had breached. Gunfire and smoke was everywhere, and the young Hunter could only grit his teeth behind his boarding shield and wait for it to subside. Mutants and fallen humans were filling the passage with las and auto gun fire, though he thought his armor could take it, there was no point in risking death or injury for pride.

To his right, Einar was clutching a power sword that to a mortal would need two hands. The blade was stained with the corrupted essence of many a mortal already, the veteran was clutching a bolt pistol in his other hand, waiting to unload it's magazine on his enemy. The blond, grim faced Astartes had little to say, and Breki couldn't fault the blade smith for his demeanor. He was not originally part of Mikael's squad, hadn't joined it as a fresh faced youth, from what Breki had been told, Einar had been the only survivor of his squad.

They had pulled the Hunter from a pile of dead Dark Eldar, clutching a broken length of chainsword in his one still attached hand. Around him were his brothers, broken under xenos blades, xenos guns. Einar had killed and kept killing until he had been brought down. The corrupted eldar thought him slowly dying from their intricate poisons, the few of them still alive had left. That was their mistake. When reinforcements had arrived they had found the Einar in a healing coma, his skin already sweating the poison out of his system. Mikael had led the reinforcements, having needed a replacement and impressed by the tenacity of Einar, he had taken him into his squad.

The lull came finally, the need for shields was over. Breki pulled the flamer at his side free, ready to hose down the tunnel with flaming promethium. He didn't get the chance to. Einar was already running ahead, bolt pistol firing as he closed with the enemy, cutting them down with clinical strikes from his blade.

Breki was beside the swordsman when the killing lulled, firing his flamer down the adjacent corridor to clear it for the advance. The roar of promethium burning, the screams of heretics accompanying it, let him know it had been required, renewed the young Astartes sense of purpose. The rest of the squad was arrayed behind the two, waiting for their time to replace the leading three. Mikael would not step aside for another of his squad to face danger where he could have, so it left Breki and Einar to trade out. The young Hunter had something to prove though, and had yet to be replaced. His armor was dented in several places for his trouble, his left leg blackened from a heretics flamer.

The squad came to a crossroads, orders were to scuttle the ship. Two other squads from Sixth Company were aboard. Breki wasn't privy to the reasoning behind it, but his squad had been given the mission of taking the bridge of the ship.

Mikael grunted beside him, "the bridge can't be far ahead, that's where we'll find our fight, our real one. Traitors dwell there, glory to the first to bring me the head of a fallen Astartes!" he roared, his blood up as he pointed his power ax forward, a command for them to advance.

Locking shields, the Astartes advanced into the face of renewing enemy gunfire. A low chant was coming over the squad's comlink. Hans was singing again, a song that Breki did not know. It was low and deep, with the feral wording of a death worlder all over it. Soon, other voices joined in. Einar, Lucas, and Mikael began singing the dirge with Hans, before beginning turning it over to the vox. The eery song echoed over the lasfire in the ship corridors. Soon, Breki found himself joining in, hearing the stanzas repeated over and over had lent him the ability to, even if he didn't know what the words meant.

They pushed on through barricades and gun emplacements, going a further two hundred meters before traitor angels made themselves known. Iron clad, with hazard stripes painted on their armor. Their gunmetal bolters chattering as they spat death at their loyalist cousins. Breki could hear the hate in the dirge as they advanced, before a screeching roar of fury overtook it. Mikael had surged forward, engaging the largest of the traitors with his ax.

Ax met blade, as the traitor defended himself with an oily, serrated sword. The traitors brothers joined in the combat, meeting the veteran swordsman Einar and the squad second Lucas in melee combat. Breki found himself too busy to watch, he had his own fight.

An Iron Warrior with a crimson topknot upon his helm had lunged for him with a chainsword. Breki had maglocked his flamer, and drawn his own chainsword to meet it. The two blades locked, motors revving as they sought purchase upon their opponent.

Breki shoved the traitor with his shield, sending the him into the bulkhead, the blades came apart, Breki's scoring a gash through the iron breastplate, the traitor's blade left a whirring gouge up the length of the young Astartes' forearm. The following blows from the Iron Warrior were blocked by Breki's shield, before he saw an opening. He plunged his blade forward into the traitor's gorget, nearly decapitating his foe.

He took stock of the battle around him. Joros had lost his right arm, it dangled from a few strands of meat before Einar removed it fully with a strike of his blade. Mikael had finished his foe long ago, leaving the chest plate of his opponent savaged open. The bulkhead doors before them lead to the bridge, to their objective.

With the melta bombs in place, the squad took up position before them. Shields raised, ready to charge in. They didn't have to wait long, the explosives doing their job. Breki was in the lead, howling with his Sergeant, as they entered a charnel house fit for nightmares.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Schedule is hectic, hurried this one out. Hopefully it isn't too bad.


	3. Chapter 3

The Clash at Vorbek

Disclaimer: I do not own Warhammer 40,000

Chapter 3

Daniel Montegard didn't like the idea of running around with Astartes, they seemed to always have a flair for the dangerously suicidal in the holo programs. He had to admit though, these ones certainly knew what they were doing. Sven, the scout in charge, had taken Montegard and a squad with him, the rest of the scouts taking ragged groups with them in an effort to avoid detection. Smaller groups were harder to track. He wished he had thought of that back when they moved about in a platoon. If they weren't fighting blood crazed cultists it could have proven fatal.

They had split up three days ago, and since then the ruins had been alight with either an eerie silence, or the screams and roars of pitched combat. It wasn't just cultists out there anymore, a dying guardsman's vox had revealed that. Sven had explained afterwards that tainted Astartes were scouring the ruins, no doubt looking for him and his squad. They wouldn't waste berserkers on mortals, not to hunt them down anyway.

Sven had gone quiet after telling them, no doubt thinking about the scout leading that particular squad. His face was set in a grim line, and Daniel watched him replace the magazine in his bolt pistol with a straight magazine rather than the usual curved.

The scout caught him looking, "kraken penetrator rounds, good for armor. A shame all you mortals have are those cheap toys, or I'd share."

Montegard shrugged, the lasgun was a reliable tool. It did well with soft targets, men, it was never made to kill demigods. It took several concentrated lasgun bursts to even penetrate the power armor of an Astartes. They would need something better, and soon.

"If I told you we could get better weapons, would you help us?" He asked quietly, Sven nodded, and Daniel told him how they could.

There were armories scattered across Vorbek. Most had been picked clean by cultists, arbitrators, and fellow guardsmen. But, Montegard knew for a fact that one, designated 17B, was still intact. It wasn't a large store by any means, and was mostly forgotten. The only reason he knew about it was the fact he had been put on a working party to establish the armory. Plasma guns, melta guns, and nearly two hundred human sized bolters and enough ammunition to supply a company was kept within 17B's walls.

It took the rest of the day to reach the armory doors. It was a small concrete building on the corner of a hab block. The squat grey building blended in perfectly with the drab apartment buildings that surrounded it.

They had nearly been discovered several times on the way to 17B. If Sven hadn't been there, with his superhuman senses, they would have become involved in four or five firefights. It wasn't unusual for them to stumble into heretic patrols before they had the aid of the Hunters, both sides unaware of the other until the fatal first contact took place.

Daniel and the rest of them took cover in a ruin across the road from the armory. They set up a small watch, taking time to rest and eat, while he went with Sven to see what they could do about the armory doors. The two ran across the rubble strewn street, and up to the doorway. Sven holstered his bolt pistol while Daniel crouched down and watched the street.

The large double doors were locked, no surprise there given what had happened of late. They had not been broken down and raided, which was a surprise. Most everything had been picked clean since the traitor forces had made planet fall. Montegard had never had to break into a building, and knew nothing about how to do it. He doubted any of the other men and women in the squad knew either. As far as he knew, they were all basic PDF, just like him.

"Do you have any ideas, my lord?" He asked, unsure if he would like the answer.

"Aye," Sven nodded, rummaging in his equipment pouches, "It's a standard Godwin pattern door, used across the segmentum for more than just keeping an armory secure. It won't take much to get open for me." He finished by producing a small torch that he flicked to life, before starting to knock on the seem where the door split into two.

The scout found what he wanted after a few minutes, and began cutting into the door with the torch. Slowly, he cut a square roughly six inches tall and wide out, before pulling it out with his gloved hands. The molten steel ate through the scouts gloves, revealing the steel bionics beneath. Casually, the scout pulled the bar locking the door back, letting the door slip open with a loud thunk.

"After you, mortal," Sven said mockingly, bowing a little and gesturing towards the door. It amazed Montegard how the man could go from casual to serious within beats of each other.

Daniel took his first steps into the armory, flashlight exposing crates covered in layers of dust, when Sven yelled from the street. The bark of a bolt pistol filled the night, accompanied by the cracks of lasguns. Daniel tried to come to Sven's aid, when the scout pushed him back into the room.

"Find a weapon! They're berserkers and you'll need something with a kick to it." The scout took a knee in the open doorway, firing his pistol two handed and hurling insults at the traitors.

The weapon racks contained bolters locked into the metal bars. Montegard had no time to look for the keys, didn't even think about that till later. He tore around the room, trying to find something, anything he could use. His eyes fell upon a rack left unlocked.

Plasma had always been a volatile weapon in the hands of man, and the Voborosi pattern plasma gun in his hands was just one of mankind's many attempts to harness it. The gun had several flasks of ammunition stacked in boxes next to the rack. Montegard snatched up a handful of the boxes, and set about loading the gun with shaking hands as he made his way back to the doorway.

Montegard remembered his training then, they had spent a week learning how to operate specialist weapons in boot camp, but since then he had had precious little to do with any of them. Truth be told, he would rather have a bolter. But, beggars couldn't be choosers, especially not right now.

He slipped the safety off as he got to the door, lined up the sights on the gun, and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened, mystified, he stared at the gun's action, thinking he had fouled up the safety or something like that. A memory from a year previously filtered into his mind, the instructor had told them they needed to hold the trigger for several seconds to charge the gun before firing. Biting his lip, sweating from the rush of adrenaline, he did just that.

A whine that set his teeth on edge in his gums filled Montegard's ears. The traitor forces rampaging down the streets didn't notice him until it was too late, then he let go of the trigger. He could see the blood lust in their eyes turn to panic as they saw what was in his hands.

The super heated ball of plasma exploded amongst the mob of cultists, incinerating them in an instant. What wasn't incinerated instantly was left as super cooked flesh cooling on the ground. Those that weren't killed instantly were left mewling on the ground, clutching cauterized stumps or rolling on the ground screaming from their skin being cooked.

Their cries must have attracted some attention, or been the signal they were waiting for. More cultists came out of the ruins around them, but they had company this time. Traitor Astartes were running with them, screaming bloody murder as they revved their chain axes, one giant painted iron with hazard stripes fired a bolter calmly, clearly in charge of his maniacal brethren.

"Looks like it's time to go," Sven muttered, taking one berserkers feet out from underneath him with the kraken penetrator rounds. The bolts shredded the left leg of the berserker at the thigh, separating the leg from the body. He finished off the crawling berserker with a shot to the head.

Lasguns continued to fire from the building, Daniel and Sven made a run for the ruin, not wanting to get cut off from their squad. There were two more Astartes out on the street with the cultists, and they were closing fast. Two of Montegard's fellow guardsmen went down from the sporadic fire, one other lay clutching an autogun wound in his shoulder.

Montegard fired his plasma gun again, the ball of plasma taking one of the traitors in the chest. It left the traitor on the ground, the only things left of him being smoking limbs of the iron plated giant. The gun would need time to cool down, and there was still one berserker. Sven pulled a long bladed knife out of its scabbard and ran to meet the berserker, firing his pistol as he went.

If anything, Montegard could kill the berserker again in a few seconds. He could fire now, but to do so risked the gun blowing up in his hands and taking him with it. He would just have to trust the scout to kill the berserker on his own. The Astartes was a veteran, after all.

The two examples of genetically engineered killing machine met in a clap of ceramite, the sound of metal being struck by a hammer filling the air. It was over in a moment. Sven left with a deep cut across his chest, that travelled up to his shoulder, ripping the cloak from it. Blood leaked from the gash,where the chainsword had penetrated his armor. Sven's own blade was embedded in the berserkers head, having gone through his skull via way of being stabbed up through his neck. The blade had slipped through the vulnerable gorget of the Astartes power armor.

"We need to leave, now. Get the weapons you came for and destroy the rest," the Astartes yelled to Montegard. He hurried to comply, ushering the squad into the building. The last thing he saw before turning to his task was the scout pulling his blade free, and carving something into the traitors chest armor.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Stanislav Doombringer lamented his position in life, if only momentarily. He was a son of Perturabo, he was iron within, he did his best with what he had. What he had was a handful of his original grand company, and a mindless rabble of the sons of Angron. He wished for the days of the Heresy again, were he had a thousand Astartes under his command.

In retrospect, he blamed his former second in command for it. Goran had been ambitious, too ambitious, and had led almost half his great in mutiny. Doombringer's 87th grand company had been reduced from over one hundred Iron Warriors to barely thirty when the dust settled. The only consolation that Stanislav had was Goran's skull on his trophy rack.

That had been nearly sixty years ago, and they had only just managed to get their numbers back up past fifty Iron Warriors. To combat this, Stanislav had replaced demigod killing power with the force of the dregs of society, thousands of cultists flocked to his banner. Daemon engines stood where predator tanks and vindicators once had. It left a foul taste in his mouth, using daemons, it was not their way. They had to make do roving from planet to planet, slowing rebuilding their numbers from their slave militia, when the favor of the Dark Gods fell upon him.

While in port, on some daemon world he couldn't remember the name of, he had been pulled into a duel by a warmonger of Khorne, a jumped up champion too eager for skulls. Stanislav had left him neatly bisected in the dirt outside of their mobile fortress. He had taken the dead Astartes' men, eighty eight sons of Angron, and all of their mortal assets, and kickstarted a plan he thought years away from fruition.

To become great again, they would need three things. They would need flesh, they would need steel, and they would need time. Vorbek had seemed to fit all three categories, and they had launched their assault. The mortals put up a good fight, their flesh would suit his needs, if they had given in or been crushed too quickly, they would not be worthy of becoming warriors underneath his banner.

Now, the dogs of Manus were sniffing around the world. Reports had been filtering in of Astartes in scout armor being seen with the bands of guardsmen scattered throughout the ruins. Astartes in dark green armor and bone pauldrons. The Howling Hunters, dogs of the Corpse Emperor. They had been a thorn in his side before, one that he had thought gone long ago. For Imperials, they fought well, Stanislav found a grudging sort of respect for them. He had clashed with them three times before, each time being driven from his objective, sent reeling from a lost war. Never a campaign under his direct control, mind, but always a war he played a part in.

He looked now over the battlefield he currently faced. The dregs that he called a militia ran across the field, seeking a weak point in the enemy defenses. They had sent prisoners through the obstacles before, none came back, and all it had accomplished was ridding them of having to guard the wretches. Now, they would send the mortals deluded enough to follow him.

Stanislav saw a squad of ragged militia run into a minefield. One man tripped an antipersonnel mine, sending him spiraling into the air, his lower body flying in the opposite direction of his body. The rest of his squad was more fortunate, having only caught pieces of shrapnel. Still, the squad was in a minefield now, and to take another step most likely meant death. An overseer, a mortal they had deigned to mark as having authority, screamed at them. The rest of the squad took off on a run, more scared of torturous punishment than death. The rest of the traitors tripped a few mines, their cooling, shredded corpses just another addition to the battlefield.

The warsmith laughed at that, mortals were pathetic creatures, unskilled in the art of war. He had once been like them, before being scooped up on the streets of Olympia to become a tool in the great primarch Perturabo's legion. He watched them scurry across the muddy field full of razorwire and mines. It wouldn't be long now, before he unleashed his trump card. No, not long at all.

He had entrusted a device to the lead overseer, a man called Gort if he remembered correctly. It didn't matter, the man would no doubt soon be dead. All the overseer had to do was get the device, about the size of a demolition pack, to the walls. If he could do that, Stanislav would have this hive before nightfall.

The man in question, was well on his way to the wall. Screaming oaths to the dark gods and firing a las pistol as he ran with a group of deranged cultists. They had herded several groups of less enthusiastic cultists ahead of them, using them as meat shields. It wasn't the most cost effective tactic, but the mortals weren't useful for their brains. They were useful because they did what they were told.

Other groups of cultists carried melta charges, the press of bodies was at the wall now. The charges dropped at the base of the wall before their carriers could activate them. All the fire the defenders had couldn't stop the hordes swarming at various points across the hive, a weak point would be found soon.

That weak point was found with the dying breath of a cultist. The melta bombs combined explosive force sent a section of the wall crumbling to the ground. Explosive pressure killed more of the cultists than the actual explosive, and for a moment the battlefield was silent. Gort was not amongst the dead, no, the leader had hung back in a shell crater. The shrill battle cries rang out again, the ragged remains were back on their feet, package was in with the flood of bodies hammering at the breach, flooding into the killzone the guard was trying to hastily put in place.

It was deployed, finally, and just like that Stanislav knew the battle was over. Where there had been nothing before, there was now the hulking bodies of Astartes in terminator armor. They were his elite, warriors who had fought by his side for hundreds of years.

A reaper autocannon chattered, tearing apart mortals behind their barricades. Combi-bolters firing alongside. Shutting the command hatch of his land raider, the warsmith commanded his driver forward. If he wanted any part in the battle, he would have to move now.

"Iron within, iron without," he growled out as he slammed his helmet in place over his head. The chosen around him echoed his battle cry, the sons of Olympia went to war.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The command deck was covered in foul iconography that hurt the mortal eye to look at. Mutants of all breed and imagine cowered away from their presence. Blood daubed ruins were everywhere, praising the dark gods. Mikael's lips curled in disgust, he would see everyone and everything in this room put to the flame. A goat headed mutant foolishly tried to get past them in it's panic. Mikael's ax split the creature in twain.

Michael Red Axe was by no means a master duelist. He had done his time in the assault squads, learning the art of the chainsword. He had endlessly drilled with his combat knife as a fresh brother of a tactical squad, learning to use the blade as an extension of his arm. Still, the art of the sword never quite took with the Iron Father, no, his weapon was the ax.

The broad, powerful blade was meant to chop into it's foe, never to artfully slice, always meant to split apart. When a sword struck bone, it had a hard time cutting through, more for parting flesh than for shear destruction. When an ax hit a limb, it took that limb with it.

Michael often argued with his resident blade master, Einar, over the merits of an ax. The tattooed Astartes often snorting derisively, any pissant could swing an ax, it took a real master of killing to use a blade. That was the blade master's argument, until his own blade was shattered by a nob's power claw and Michael saved his hide by splitting the giant ork's skull. Einar had more respect then, for what an ax could do.

Mikael's ax was a relic from the age where Ferrus Manus walked amongst his sons upon conquered worlds. It had no name, not to him. It had had many from it's previous wielders, Gorgon's Rage, Steel Bite, Fury of Mars, Mikael had no use for these titles, to him his ax was merely an extension of himself. At this point, the weapon may as well have been a part of himself, and would be until the day he died.

The traitors that met them on the breech were some of the best in their legion at void warfare, the physical aspect of it. They were the ones that commanded Astartes in the dangerous ship boarding actions they had undertaken over the hundreds of years since they had forsaken their vows. Mikael's ax sliced the first one in twain from shoulder to hip, spilling transhuman organs across the steel mesh of the command deck.

Bolter fire pinged off his shield, sending sparks off the blessed surface. Around Mikael his squad fell into combat with the rest of the traitors, trading blows with their opposite. Breki fired his flamer at a mob of charging mortals, the deck crew no doubt, reducing them to screaming human torches. He maglocked the flamer before drawing a chainsword and waging into melee combat.

A hulking brute nearly knocked Mikael's arm off, such was the fury of his blow. The Iron Warrior hefted a massive power maul in one hand, a bolt pistol in the other. Judging from the level of ornamentation on his armor, he was high ranking, possibly the ship commander himself. Mikael smacked his ax on his shield, accepting his challenge.

The shield was an advantage, letting Mikael redirect several blows that would have smashed him to bits had they hit. He never let it hit it head on, that would smash the shield, instead letting it score several gouges across its surface. His own ax flared out, attempting to chop deep into his opponent. The blade took the traitor once in the shoulder, drawing blood but little else. It was but a glance.

"Mikael, this is Rolf, what is your current position?" A gruff voice asked on Mikael's vox, Sergeant Rolf Forkbeard was an Astartes as venerable as Mikael. He was in charge of one of the other breaching squads aboard this hellish vessel.

"Currently engaging traitor forces upon the bridge, have you planted the charges, brother?" Mikael grunted, dodging out of the way of another maul swing before chopping with his ax once more. The heavy head of it chopping heavily into the traitors off hand. The hand flopped to the ground, with little blood going with it.

"Sustained casualties, but the charges are planted, you have thirty minutes to get off this damned hulk. See that none of their commanders leave this ship alive, brother, Forkbeard out." The vox shut off with a click, just as Mikael found an opening. Burying his ax in his opponents chest. The force of the blow and the disruption field generated by the power weapon destroyed both the traitors hearts. The blood left on the blade baking from the energy coursing through it and flaking off within seconds.

Around him, the rest of his squad had finished their own duels. All that was left were cooling corpses in a room full of blasphemy.

"Breki, burn it all. We leave this ship now, mission accomplished." The strode from the room then, The whoosh of a flamer the only parting noise. The would return to their own ship, and make ready for war on the surface of Vorbek. His hand tightened on the haft of his ax, Mikael was looking forward to it.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Around Aldo Stonetooth were his command squad, all clad in terminator armor. His company champion stood before him, as if to protect his captain from the Inquisitor blocking their way. Aldo needed no protection, not from any mere mortal. He called Dain back to him, the champion obeyed, lowering his storm shield and thunder hammer. To her credit, Lucilla Thorne looked merely amused where most would have been terrified of the menacing Astartes, only held back from killing her by virtue of not having permission.

"Lady Inquisitor, how kind of you to see us off to war," Aldo began, cheerful even in the face of battle, "to what do we owe such a splendid honor?"

"I wish to accompany you into this battle, Captain. We have much to discuss that I'm afraid can't wait until you're through with this campaign." Lucilla was cool, cultured, very much aware of the protection the rosette of the Inquisition gave her. Had they been Wolves, or even the Flesh Tearers, she would have soon realized just how little the pin she brandished so proudly meant to some.

"I trust you've got your own ship then, you'd be shook to bits in a drop pod." Aldo knew when to pick his battles, this one wasn't worth fighting. Maybe they'd luck out and a stray round would take the lady Inquisitor from them. So far she'd been nothing but a pain for their chapter.

"We do possess our own transportation," she began, "but we would do better accompanied by one of your squads. Say, Red Axe's for example."

Aldo glared at her, "Sergeant Red Axe is one of mine, and only fit to be commanded by me."

"It would do much in the way of convincing the Inquisition that you are free of taint, having one of your best squads under observation by an Inquisitor such as myself,don't you think?"

The Captain stared at her, wordless. Then laughed, "aye, you'll have him. I'm sure you'll enjoy being part of his mission as much as he'll enjoy you being there."

Then, Aldo pushed past the Inquisitor and her retinue, into the teleportarium. As he went, he relayed new orders to Red Axe, which were greeted with terse acknowledgement. The six terminators took up the bulk of the ancient teleportarium's room,and when the call of the ancient technology took them, it was with great anticipation in the hearts of them all.

An hour later, Mikael Red Axe was greeted to the sight of the Lady Inquisitor aboard her own vessel,beckoning the Sergeant and his squad into it. Ammunition was replenished, boarding shields returned, and armor resanctified, before they boarded the Inquisition ship. The all human crew had it prepared for launch already, and after the Astartes had buckled into their drop harnesses, it was time to make planetfall. Mikael stared at the Inquisitor, unsure of just how he would get himself out of this predicament.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Yuri stared down at his fallen brother, a targeting reticle carved into his chest plate. It was a symbol of the Hunters, a taunt for the Iron Warrior to find. The three squads of mortals he had sent ahead to find the loyalists had been cut down and marked in a similar fashion. It was no matter, they were easily replaced. The fact that an Iron Warrior had fallen was disconcerting, they could ill afford losses at this point in the venture. Better to risk a rabid son of Angron than one of Olympia.

The eight Blood Pack prowled around him, growling and foaming at the mouth like rabid animals rather than the Astartes they had been once. They had the scent of their prey, and longed to hunt. It was only Yuri holding them back, and none dared cross him, not even the most blood maddened. Yuri had a reputation, and not one for being a stern and patient commander.

"How long has it been since he fell?" He asked one of the pathetic, mewling mortals that had been present at the skirmish.

"Couldn't have been more than a few hours," The mortal replied. Yuri's eyes narrowed, did this man see him as an equal? A quick flash of his blade separated the man's head from his neck.

"Would another of you worms be more helpful, or shall I have the lot of you put to the sword for incompetence?" There was nothing of use being babbled,by any of the desperate cultists.

"Kill them," he commanded, leaving the Blood Pack howling and ripping apart the mortals. Yuri returned to his command rhino,where the five Iron Warriors he had brought with him waited, "The worms know nothing, we will have to rely on the Blood Pack to sniff them out, or wait for them to come to us. That is time we do not have."

"The fact we have to rely on such tainted warriors is vexing," Evgeni commented, cradling his plasma gun, " I say we hunt them down ourselves, and leave these brutes to their slaughter."

"Alas, dear Evgeni, we have our orders, and our orders are to use the Blood Pack, not set them loose." Pyotr replied, "if we let the berserkers kill everyone, there will be no one left for us to enslave."

"That does pose a problem," Evgeni grudgingly admitted, "we will have to use them, though it pains me to."

What wasn't said, was the fact that Evgeni was wary of the tainted sons of Angron. The call of Chaos forever sought to turn Astartes to them, the Iron Warriors worshiped none of the gods as a whole, and for that the gods forever sought to corrupt whoever they could, whenever they could. The Lord of Skulls had set his eyes on Evgeni it seemed, and the lure of eternal bloodshed had nearly taken him from them in their last battle.

The Blood Pack had finished tearing apart the cultists, their heads stacked up in a pile amidst the eviscerated flesh. Yuri approached them, offering a scrap of cloth from a torn camo cloak left behind at the ransacked armory the two Astartes had fallen at, where they said the Hunters had been. The berserker took it, smelled it, and immediately broke into a run, its brothers following it. Whatever the warp had done to these Astartes, it made them excellent trackers. Once they had a scent, they would find their prey, no matter where it was. Yuri was counting on it, as he had many times before, even if it caused bile to rise up in his throat.

"Find them for me, so I can strip the bionics from their bodies, slit their bellies open, and leave them to die mewling upon the ground like overgrown grubs." Yuri mounted back up in his rhino, climbing into the cupola to better monitor the Blood Pack. The dual grips of the storm bolters felt good in his hands, the ammunition already fed into the action.

As the rhino pulled out, a scout was observing everything through the scope of his stalker bolter. He didn't take a shot, but had calmly relayed the size, armament, and direction of travel of the traitors. The vox clicked in acknowledgment of his report, before going totally silent.

"Well," the scout grumbled to himself, "this isn't good."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


End file.
